The Oseberg

The room scarcely alive
With the sound of hollow steps.

Excavated from home soil
From glorious Earth’s depths.

Endless eyes that glance over
The embellished and handcrafted form.

Won’t understand her strength within
Because no longer does she ride the storm.

Kinsmanship that has been forgotten
For the hands that crafted are long gone.

Won’t ever feel the salty waves again
Or hear a Viking’s song.

She cares not for visitors
Who come to fill an empty afternoon.

Neither does she care for guides
Who feel their words to be a boon.

But how she longs to be caressed
By the unrelenting sea.

And waves that crash and break upon
The beautiful bow of she.

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